


Flesh And Blood

by vanishing_time



Category: Bohemian Rhapsody (Movie 2018) Actor RPF, Queen (Band)
Genre: Angst, Deazzello, Established Relationship, Exactly What It Says on the Tin, Incest, M/M, POV First Person, Romance, Taboo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-17
Updated: 2020-04-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:47:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23681857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanishing_time/pseuds/vanishing_time
Summary: John and Joe have a wonderful life together, until one day John learns they are related. How will they face the unexpected and cope with their lives turned upside down?
Relationships: John Deacon/Joe Mazzello
Comments: 24
Kudos: 32





	Flesh And Blood

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, I went there. I wanted to explore this topic through these characters (modeled after my two favourite men) ever since the movie came out and jokes were made about how similar they look.  
> This story is purely a work of fiction, and the events portayed here don't in any way reflect my personal views.
> 
> Many thanks to [Liz3yy317865](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Liz3yy317865/pseuds/Liz3yy317865) for the betaing!

He's the most wonderful thing that has ever happened to me.

I put the letters on the counter when I arrive home, next to the fridge together with the things I brought from the grocery store, and I find him at home. He's been waiting for me, his face glows up when he sees me, and he takes me in his arms. I can't believe how big and strong his arms are, he wraps them around me and spins me about as if he hasn’t seen me for a long time, as if he’s been missing me even though I just went shopping, bringing him his favourite doughnuts.

He's been missing his home back in America, all of his friends, his family, but he decided to stay with me anyway. I never asked him to choose me. I would never ask him to leave his life for me, yet he did. Without question. Without doubt. Without any hesitation.

He’s so wonderful, I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have him. I watch him, smell him, listen to his deep laughter, we've been together for a long, long time, and I still can't believe he’s mine. That he loves me.

He kisses me, smiling at me and stroking my face, “John, John,” he whispers, and my name is so sweet on his lips, I swallow my name as I press my lips to his, they’re pliant and soft, thick and so pink, he’s the most beautiful person in the world.

Such a colourful man, young and sweet, strong and lively and lovely, and I can't take my eyes off him. I can't believe that he’s mine.

He’s young, so much younger than me – he sometimes jokes that I could be his father, and he’s right, I could be, but he doesn't seem to mind, and I don't mind. The only thing I'm worried about is–

It doesn't matter. In his arms nothing matters, in his arms time stops, and he pushes me against the wall as he kisses me, his hands discovering me, right there in the kitchen, he smells of cake and deodorant and musk. Such a tasty boy, such a colourful man, his red hair glistening in the sunlight, his eyes are greener than the grass, browner than the soil.

He kisses me and I light on fire, he kisses me and time stops as his hands are burning my skin, his voice is deepening within a moan, grumbling and purring, his breath is hot on my neck and his hands are eager on my body. “I love you,” he whispers in my ears like he always does in the throes of passion, and I want to take him to our bed. There’s not enough, never enough of him, but we don’t make it, he lets me put him on the counter, he lets me pretend I'm the stronger one but it’s all right, he giggles into the kiss and I giggle back and he wiggles himself out of his t-shirt and I help him, the heat radiating off his skin, from his armpits and chest and his soft, milky skin, and I'm making love to an angel. 

He smiles at me for a second, stopping his hands on me and smiling at me, letting me drink in the sight of him.

He smiles at me, he always smiles, his whole being is one enormous smile even when he’s acting serious, and his love for life is shining through him. His hands are on me, his lips are on mine, his bare skin is burning against my body. “Joe,” I whisper his name as he moans, and he’s naked and I'm naked too, his arms are around me, and his legs around me, he’s a white flower and I plunge into his love. I thrust against him and his fingertips leave marks on my shoulder, we swipe down everything from the counter, letters and bags of groceries and doughnut boxes, and Joe’s chuckle fades into a moan of my name.

He’s not at home when I open the envelope.

It has my name written on it, there's no sender, but I open it anyway, putting the knife aside, wondering what this is about, whether it’s some marketing campaign targeted at me, or a fan letter, or just–

There’s a letter inside, a handwritten letter. I struggle to read it because I'm not used to reading handwritten letters anymore, I even doubt I could legibly write by hand anymore–

I read the letter.

I read the letter, and it makes my heart miss a beat.

It must be a joke. Yes, it’s probably a joke, it has to be. I shake my head, but my hands are trembling and my whole face burns and—

_ “John, _

_ I'm sorry for breaking into your life like this, but Joe told me about you, about you and him—" _

I read the rest of the letter, but the words make zero sense. I read the letter but a thousand things are flashing through my mind, I don't understand what I'm reading, the words don't make sense, it must be a dream. Yes, this is definitely a dream.

I look at my hand, trying to count my fingers - Joe once told me that if you think you’re dreaming, you should try counting your fingers, and if you’re unable to, that means you are actually in a dream.

But I’m able to count them, and I stare at my hands.

My eyes are focusing on my palm because that’s what Joe also told me – if you realize you're in a dream and you want to keep dreaming, you have to keep moving your eyes because that makes you stay in the dream. But I want to wake up. If I focus on an object, any object, I'm going to wake up. Joe knows this. He plays with lucid dreaming because he’s interested in it, he’s interested in everything. He’s so open, he’s so curious, my curious little darling–

The only word I comprehend is the name. The signature of the sender.

The name brings back memories, even though we haven't talked in decades. The name brings back the memory of a love, not the first love, not the second love, it doesn't matter which one. Love can be as deep and passionate for the first time as for the seventh time, or for the last time.

Except I know, I  _ know, _ that there wasn’t and there will be no other love in my life like Joe.

The name brings back memories, and the writing is familiar like the love letters of the past, the familiar handwriting spells out Joe’s name, the J’s are rounded the same way how the initial of my name used to be rounded.  _ Joe, John, _ they almost sound the same, and they should be, because we might be two separate people, but we’re conjoined in our initials.

_ John. Joe. _

I stare at the paper but I don't understand, I have to read it again and again and again.

As the minutes pass, I begin to get what it’s implying.

As the hours pass, I finally understand. 

But I don't believe it.

No, no.

It’s ridiculous. No.

Impossible.

It’s not true. It’s not true. It’s a lie. It’s a lie…

I realize I'm wheezing like when I used to run. I don't really run nowadays, instead, I take long walks with Joe, we go hiking a lot and sometimes dance until dawn and it’s not the same as running, and there’s not enough air and I need to breathe and I need to run–

I crumple the letter and throw it in the bin, but then I take it out and I try to light a match, only managing to ignite the fifth one because my hands are trembling that much, I set the paper on fire and throw it in the fireplace and I don't even wait for it to burn down, I slam the door behind me and I run, I run away, I run into the park towards the stream until I'm out there in the cool shadows, blinded by my tears.

I'm watching him that night as he eats, as he talks, as he laughs and explains and gestures and exists. I'm watching him as if I’m in a dream, a nightmare. He turns all my nightmares into dreams, but this dream of him is instead turning into a nightmare.

I could almost convince myself it was just a tasteless joke.

I could almost convince myself that it was a lie, a simple lie, sent to me by someone who wishes me ill will, not sent by  _ her  _ at all.

But it was her writing. It was her grammar style. It was her signature, her tears on the paper.

I went through Joe's drawer, and compared the writing on a Thanksgiving postcard to the letters in my memory.

They are the same.

_ “Happy Thanksgiving, little monkey. I can’t wait to see you and meet John.” _

I remember every word, and I refuse to acknowledge them.

I don't believe anything that letter said. I must have dreamed it all up.

I'm going insane.

I'm observing him.

Of course he’s noticed that something's wrong, but I managed to convince him that it’s nothing serious. That it’s just that my nightmares are back. He held me in his arms then, those big, muscular arms of his, jokingly telling me that he’ll stand on guard above our bed, making the nightmares go away.

My nightmares are back, but these are new ones.

He's offered me a drink, and I'm drinking from his glass, a glass of blood-red wine in his hands, and a drop is flowing down in the corner of his lips like blood.

His blood. My blood.

I want to lick it off his lips, but as I lean close, I come to a halt as if I was about to do something forbidden. Something sinful. Something hideous.

An artificial ease comes down on me after the third glass.

He smiles as I'm staring at him. Probably longingly. Probably lovingly. And he knows I love him. He knows I love him more than anyone on this planet, more than myself, more than life itself. I would get beaten up for him, get tortured and raped and murdered for him. I would kill for him, and I would die for him.

And he knows.

It reflects in his eyes that are glistening with the wine, darkening with desire and love, mirroring mine, and he suddenly grabs my face and kisses me like there's no tomorrow, gasping for air between kisses. His tongue is deep within my mouth, entering me, claiming me, marking me as his, and I give in to him because he’s my life and everything I’ve ever wanted.

If I'm going insane, I'm going insane in his arms.

I convinced myself that it was a lie.

Yet I keep staring at him. I find myself observing his face, I find myself sneaking up to him, hugging him in front of the mirror as he’s shaving. His hair is red like his mother’s.

I haven't met her, yet I know.

He showed me a picture of her, and I never recognized her. Decades have passed. She changed colours. I thought she looks familiar because she looks like him. 

I probably didn't want to recognize her.

The world is not yet ready to know about us, so we’re hiding, living secretly, loving covertly.

But she found out. Maybe he showed her a picture of me. It doesn't matter.

And I know who she is, I know her very well.

His hair is like her mother’s used to be, red and shining, their eyes are the same colour. It’s ridiculous how similar boys are to their mothers.

His smile is… his smile is heart-shaped, just like…

I'm insane. I'm crazy. I’m in a coma that there’s no waking up from.

He asks me what’s wrong, but I can't tell him. He's worried, I know. I tell him I'm just feeling unwell, but at night I cling to him like the last thread connecting me to sanity. I cling to him and I wish nothing more than to make love to him, but I can’t, and he whispers to me like he would to a sick child. He whispers stories and tales into my ear as I tremble, he softly, quietly sings to me as I shiver and cry and he doesn’t understand, but he’s with me nonetheless.

I'm scared, I'm lost, I'm confused.

I wake up again at night and I grab onto him, and I whisper in his ear that I need his blood, and he wakes up and stares at me and he puts his palm on my forehead, and it must be burning because he sighs in relief but also in worry, he brings me water and a cool, wet towel to cover my forehead with.

I keep begging for his blood, I need to taste him, I need to feel his life in my mouth, and I must be begging desperately because he looks at me seriously, and he brings in a knife and cuts his wrist, a few drops of blood springing from it, and he brings it to my mouth. I fasten my lips over the small wound, tasting the salt and the copper, the tiny hairs tickling my lips, and I must be calming down because I fall back onto the sheets, tasting him, thanking him, and he presses a kiss on my burning temple.

He has to know that I love him. He has to understand that. I love him, no matter what. I can't lose him.

When he goes out for a fresh towel, I spit his blood into a handkerchief, tucking it under my pillow.

I stole from him.

But I have to know.

Another envelope, this time there’s a sender as well. I find it in the mailbox before he does, but I don't know if I should be grateful for this or not.

I stare at it for a long while.

Do I really want to know?

I should burn this one as well. I should deny the whole thing, pretend it never happened, pretend it was just a psychotic episode.

Maybe it was.

But…

He has the right to know.

I could never lie to him, not even a white lie. 

My hands are shaking horribly as I open the envelope, almost tearing it in half, and I jump to the end of the letter immediately, looking for a number.

_ ninety-nine point ninety-nine percent _

My fingers are whitening as I hold onto the counter, watching the paper falling to the floor in slow motion, landing at my feet.

Joe.

Joe’s laughter as I tell him a joke or prank him.

Joe’s sassy, witty remarks.

Joe, passionately talking about acting.

Joe closing his eyes in pleasure, moaning sweetly in my arms as I make love to him.

Joe, coming home with a bouquet of roses and a cheeky smile, turning over and pulling down his jeans to show me the silly boxers he's put on, ‘juicy’ written over his butt.

I chuckle at the memory as tears are blurring my vision.

I don't know how long I stand there.

But he comes home, finding me there, he has a flower in his hand and he hands it to me, but seeing how awful I look he throws it onto the counter, taking me in his arms again, and I don't even have the energy to hold him back.

I just lean my face against his shoulder, breathing him in.

He smells like…

“John. John.” His voice is tender and deep, and so, so loving.

…he smells like me. He doesn’t sound like me. But he smells like me, and his smile is the same shape as mine, and his nose is big like mine and his hair is like his mother’s…

I must be sobbing because he gently coos, probably looking for answers even now, his mind is like that, always wanting to know, always curious, always needing to be ahead of everyone, always trying to make me happy, to make my pain go away…

He sees the letter on the floor and he picks it up, not reading it, but lifting my chin, watching me questioningly.

“What's wrong?” He asks quietly, and I can feel he’s prepared for the worst. "Is it this?"

He probably thinks I'm dying.

I nod, and he starts to read but I squeeze his hand, and he looks up at me.

“Joe…”

“I want to know.” His voice is gentle but strict. “I won’t read it if it’s not my business. But I want to know what makes you so devastated.”

I shake my head. How could I tell him?

“John?” He asks, not urging me, but begging me to tell him. He can’t take the tension.

I can’t tell him. I'm unable to. I can’t find my words, my voice has left me. I open my mouth but no sound comes out.

“John, please.” He looks at me, and then at the letter again, and I rasp out a few words.

“Joe, you…” Not what I wanted to say. “You should read it.”

Joe looks at me, observing my face, stroking my hair like a parent would, and his voice is incredibly gentle.

“Can’t  _ you  _ tell me?”

I stare at him, and the only thing I can think of is, how can he be so beautiful on the inside and the outside?

I inhale, shakily.

“You’re my… you're my…" How many last breaths can I take? "My son…”

My voice breaks and he stares at me, confusion, disbelief, anger, even a smile flashing across his face in a millisecond, as if he was saying that I'm tasteless for joking with something like this, and he shakes his head.

“What? John, that’s not funny.”

I hate that I predicted his reaction so well. I hate that I know him better than myself. I hate that that’s exactly how I would have reacted if he were the one to tell me that.

I want to touch him, but I can't. I just hold onto the counter and gesture towards the letter once more, and he stares at me, his eyes shooting lightning before he angrily lifts the paper to his eyes and reads it. I shouldn't be looking at his face but I'm doing it anyway, because even now, I love how expressive he is.

I love and hate every single emotion written across his face.

I've gone mad.

He reads it over and over again.

He casts his gaze at me for a second, his eyes are empty before he reads it again, and again, awkwardly turning it to look for proof that it’s fake, that I'm joking, that someone is pranking us…

He throws the paper to the counter next to the flower as if appalled by the touch of the material, and he ruffles his hair, looking everywhere but at me, his lips trembling.

“Where did you get the idea to test us?”

His voice is raspy, and I don't know if we'll ever look at each other again.

I'm going to lose him.

“Your… your mom wrote to me.”

He scoffs, his eyes glistening as he looks at the ceiling, rapidly blinking the tears away, and I want to hold him so badly, but I imagine him stepping back with disgust and I wouldn't be able to bear that.

There’s silence between us, only his controlled breathing can be heard as he tries to calm down.

“I don't believe that,” he says in the end, finally looking at me with such agony in his eyes that I have to look away. “I refuse to believe any of that bullshit.”

I don't say anything.

I wish he didn't know.

But I know I'd never be able to lie to him. Lie that everything's fine.

He had to know.

“John? For fuck’s sake, say something,” he asks me as if I knew better than him, and for a second he sounds so childish, I almost imagine him as a child, a child I’ve never seen because I wasn’t a part of his life, and I should have been there… I shouldn’t have met him like this and gotten together with him like this and fallen in love with him like this…

“Joe, I…” What should I say? What is this cruel game that life’s playing with us? “Joe, I'm… I don’t know what to say.”

“Say it’s a fucking lie!” Joe yells suddenly, trails of tears shining under his eyes now, and I can't see him anymore, my vision is so blurry. “Say it’s a goddamn joke, for heaven’s sake, John! Say that you’re just screwing with me, or… or… it’s just a prank, please tell me it’s not true…!”

He’s crying now and I’ve never seen him crying like this before, but I'm not allowed to hug him because it wouldn’t be fair, because I should only love him as a father but I love him more than that, and I can't take that part out of myself and I mustn't touch him like a lover…

“Joe, I'm…” What should I say? “I'm… so sorry. I wish I knew it before…”

“Just lie to me then,” Joe mumbles, wiping his face with his palms before tugging on his hair with a fist, maybe trying to blunt the agony with physical pain, and then he sniffs, pulling himself together like the strong man he is.

“I don't believe this bullshit,” he says again, putting on his jacket and grabbing the letter. “I refuse to believe this. I…”

He grabs his keys and leaves, and I involuntarily move to go after him, but I wouldn't be able to hold him back if I tried, and the door is slammed behind him as he storms out.

I wonder if he’ll ever come back.

I hold onto the counter as I begin to sob.

He comes back late at night. I can hear him through the fog of sedatives I've taken. The rhythm of his steps, the way his clothes are swooshing.

My hand is lying on his side of the bed and his side of the bed is cold, in contrast to my hot and sweaty bedsheets.

It's summer, a cruel summer sometime between my birthday and his.

I think back to that New Year’s Eve when he was conceived. I know it happened then.

I never saw him growing up, and now I'll never see him growing old with me.

He’ll leave me, I'm sure of it, and I'm dying at the thought.

I already feel dead as my fingers are tapping his side of the bed, cold, as I listen to the sounds of him washing his face in the dark, and I slowly slip away, not into sleep but into unconsciousness.

Before I faint into a dreamless sleep, I hear his steps, and I feel his weight on the bed as he sits down, and his ice-cold fingers wrap around mine, and I squeeze them.

I black out suddenly, knowing that he’s there, watching me.

On the contrary of what I expect, he doesn't move out.

I sometimes wish he did. Because nothing's like it was before.

Of course, how could it be? He’s… he’s probably called his mom. I can imagine him yelling her head off for lying to him, keeping a secret from him – he can be so hot-tempered. I can hear his voice getting louder in panic, in anger, in helplessness. He probably called the clinic where they did the genetic test, his voice trembling as he asked for a doctor, a lab technician, anyone. 

He asked me to repeat the test, and I gave him my blood, and he took it, in contrast to how he gave me his, unwillingly.

We’re waiting for the results, already knowing them, but we both cling to the hope that maybe it’s not true.

That he’s not blood from my blood.

We don’t talk, our conversations have been reduced to a few absolutely necessary words. Help me get down this box, please. I'm going to the store, want me to bring you anything?

I can sense his love, his whole body is trembling with it. I can see it, I can feel it. I feel the same, it’s like a vibration along my nerve endings, connecting into a node inside my chest. My beautiful son. My lover.

He disappears for a few days when he can’t take the tension anymore, and I don't blame him. I'm a few days ahead of him in the grieving process. He's still in denial. Maybe he’s bargaining. How can you bargain in this situation though? Do you say, “If he's not my father, I'll be a better person, just please, don't let him be my father"?

My son.

Flesh from my flesh.

The results come back, and the house is so, so empty without him. I walk around like a ghost, wondering if I'm mad enough to talk to my therapist already.

No. Nobody must know.

Nobody.

Just us. The two of us.

Maybe I'll lie to his mother too.

I know I can’t do that. But I'm going to try it anyway.

Nobody must know.

I text him that the results are here.

He texts me back, asking if I opened the envelope.

I tell him I didn't.

He shows up at our door. He looks like hell, with dark circles under his eyes, and he hasn't shaved for a while, and his hair is a greasy mess, but I still find him beautiful.

No. I mustn't think like this.

I mustn’t think about us, together. Because it was… a mistake. A curse. I have to delete it from my memory, from my past, from my heart. I mustn't love him like that.

But I look at him, and all I can think of is how I would hold him in my arms. How I would kiss his tears away. How I would kiss his temple, his eyelids, his cheeks, his sweet, lovely nose, his lips–

I stop myself at the thought, my face burning as I think about it. The memory of my lips on his body. Our kisses. Our lovemaking–

“I want to see it,” he says, dragging me out of my thoughts, and I nod, handing him the envelope, unopened.

I know what's inside it. I know it’s true. I know it. I know what will come, that what we had is over.

But he’s not there yet.

He tears it open impatiently, angrily, and he reads it, I'm watching his eyes moving across the paper before he squeezes it into a ball and throws it into the corner, rubbing his face.

“Joe?” I ask, not daring to, but I have to. I'm not afraid of him. I'm afraid of what might be coming.

“So it’s true after all, eh?” He asks, his voice indifferent, but I know the undertones so well.

“Seems like it,” I say, and he stands next to me, and we both stare at the floor. I bet both of us could draw the patterns of the tiles by heart.

“How are you feeling?” He asks finally, after maybe five or fifty minutes of silence when only our breathing is heard, attuned together. 

I shake my head as I chuckle for a second. Even while grieving you can breathe occasionally, apparently.

“I feel like...” How do I put it into words? “I feel like I'm living in hell.”

“Oh, boy, tell me about it.” He shakes his head, but he’s not cheerful, not at all. “I need some more time to process this.”

I carefully look at him, at his profile. How can he be so fucking beautiful? He enchanted me, and I'll never be the same again.

Blood from my blood.

“I understand.” What the bloody hell can I say in a situation like this? I never got taught what to do if you accidentally fall in love with your son.

Joe looks at me then, the adoration dancing with the agony in his eyes almost blinds me. I can feel that he wants to hold me as tightly as he can. I want it too, I want it too. Oh, to feel him in my arms again. To tell him it will be all right…

My hands are trembling from trying to hold back. His eyes are so huge. He looks so young. Lost. 

He leaves me standing there as he goes out to his car for his backpack.

Days pass. I can't tell whether it would be better if we lived separately, but we can’t seem to get torn apart. It’s awkward, but neither of us can imagine being elsewhere.

One evening, cooler than the previous ones, we're sitting on the sofa, at a safe, instinctive distance between us. Joe drinks some wine, and I stare at the fire in the fireplace, and we don't talk.

We barely talk nowadays, but we can't give up on each other's company.

"John."

I look up at my name.

Joe looks embarrassed, or rather, confused. He looks at me, then away, and at me again as he swallows.

I'm mesmerized and frightened. I'm a man under the gaze of Medusa, turning to stone at the sight of his eyes.

Joe then sighs as if deciding something, nodding to himself barely noticeably, and he shifts closer to me.

I hold my breath.

He smells so good, and I long for his touch so much, that is all I dream about, I dream of those times, another life of a few days earlier.

I have no idea how much time is passing. Joe is close and he's watching me and he slowly lifts up a trembling hand, tentatively touching my shoulder. It’s feather-light, but I'm so attuned to his touch that it feels like he's punching me.

I already know what he thinks about. I know that look in his eyes, I know the way he takes a breath, the way he still calls me by my name, I know what he wants. 

What he's decided.

He slowly strokes my shoulder, gently, ever so gently, and his eyes are taking me in so longingly, so hungrily.

"John, I thought about this. And I–"

I wait, frozen like a deer in the headlight as Joe looks away as if scared of seeing my eyes. 

He doesn’t let me see his eyes, and he takes a deep breath.

“I don’t… I don’t feel any less for you. In fact, I… if anything, I think I might be loving you even more. So–”

What is he saying?

“So I thought–”

“No.”

Joe looks at me with those incredibly round, clear eyes then, and I feel like I'm dying. The thought of the gate of the Garden of Eden opening up again… What does he expect me to do from now on? 

I swallow, grabbing his wrist, peeling his hand off.

"You can’t be serious. You’ve got to be kidding. We can’t be together like that, Joe, not anymore…”

“John…” he says, he’s calm, how can he be so calm when I'm on the verge of having a heart attack? “John, I haven't yet said what I wanted to. Please, listen to me. Please, all I'm saying is I thought it through–”

“No,” I say, looking at him in horror, at his pale face, his resolute gaze. “No. I can’t. We can’t. What are you talking about? It’s impossible. I'm your father. I can’t kiss you or touch you like that, not anymore, no–”

“John,” he says, and there’s begging in his voice now, “I… it's not like… We're both adults, and you know, we can't make children anyway, it… so it wouldn't really matter, would it?"

I'm shaking my head, panting. What is he talking about? He begins to gesture with his hands as he always does when trying to explain something. "How should I break it to you? That I don’t care that you’re my-”

“I do care,” I say, standing up and struggling to breathe because what is he saying? Has he gone crazy? “I can’t be with you like that, I simply just can’t, it's wrong, please…”

“John…” He stands up as well, reaching for me but I run away from him, I storm into our room – no, my room, and lock the door.

“John, please,” I hear him softly knocking on the door, “I know you love me, too, please…”

No.

I cover my ears so I can’t hear the desperate begging in his voice.

He’s my son. I can never, ever be with him.

He’s standing in the door, a suitcase pressed against his leg, a backpack on one shoulder, and he stands there, looking awkwardly, devastated at me.

I'll die if he leaves me.

I'll die if he steps out of my life.

There’s a moment now, stretching through time as we’re watching each other. He's so… so everything I've ever wanted. I wonder about my love for him that's still there, stronger than ever. I wonder what my love for him is made of.

I love him in so many ways. It’s so complex, it’s past my willpower to control it, it’s past my morals. We've been together for so long. And he’s been my son… not for too long.

I step towards him as he tentatively stands there, lifting his face to look up at me.

I don't want him to go.

I don't want him to go.

What I feel must be written on my face, because he steps closer, until he’s only a centimeter from me, his breath is hot on my face. 

My love. Just getting ready to step out of my life, forever.

_ No…  _

I don't know how we got here. I'm drawn to him like a moth to the flame, and I'm sure he’ll be the death of me, whether he stays or leaves…

I reach up to his face, my hand hovering over his soft stubble, his flawless skin underneath it. He has a tiny mole on his face, like mine on my cheek, and I finally touch him, I caress it with my thumb. His eyelids flutter but he doesn't take his eyes off me, no, there’s hope and love in them. His skin is perfect, slightly flushed, his eyes are so huge. My whole mind is screaming against touching him, but all of my cells want him.

I wonder if he knows how tormented I am. He probably knows. He knows me better than anyone. His skin sends electricity through my heart, my poor heart that beats so wildly that I'm certain he can hear it. 

I can't let him go.

“Don't let me go,” he whispers, echoing my thoughts, and I lean closer and stop there, unthinking, two forces dancing inside of me, pulling and tearing me asunder as I listen to his shallow breathing.

My hands slip to his shoulder, swiping the backpack off him, and he leans against the door, causing it to shut as if he were afraid of what I might do next. Afraid. Anticipating.

I touch his cheek again and caress his skin, and he puts his hand over mine, closing his eyes as he rubs his face against my palm. His lips are parted and he lets out a deep sigh, like all of the world’s weight was on his shoulders, and I was just about to lift it off. I feel his sweet breath, can taste his soul through that small blow of air, and I love him so much I can hardly breathe.

I don't know what he can read out of me, but his arms are slowly slipping around my neck, his body pulling mine close. He holds me so tightly that he might suffocate me, that he might break my neck but what a way to go, right there in his arms.

"John," he whimpers into my neck, "John." I touch his waist, wondering whether I'm actually allowed to touch him, if I'm allowed to hug him even innocently after all I've done to him. His waist is slender under my hands, slender and pliant, and so familiar.

Something snaps inside of me then, and I squeeze him to me. His beautiful body, his wonderful being, all of him is in my arms and I hold him close, weeping into his hair, stroking his head. My lover, my beautiful son. 

My love.

I feel his body shaking as he whines my name, and then he pulls away a bit. I find myself staring into his eyes which are red and green, emerald in a lake of blood, our blood. How come he's so beautiful when he cries? I've seen him crying in movies, but it's different now, even his twisted little face is so lovely, and I kiss away his tears, like I used to kiss away my children's tears when they fell off their bicycle and scraped their knees. 

"John, John…" he sniffs, begging me to make it all better, holding onto my neck, and then he says it, he whispers the word and it changes everything. 

"Father…"

He whispers the word tentatively, acceptingly, the word sounding so right on his lips. So irrelevant. So sinful. So perfect. 

"Say it again," I rasp, I want to hear it again from him as he stands on tiptoes and his lips are hovering over mine. I can feel his breath. I can feel his soul, his warmth.

"Father," he says, his lips forming it lovingly, trustingly, "Fath–"

I capture the word with my mouth, and he latches himself at my lips like he’s dying of thirst. When our lips touch, a dam breaks within me and warmth floods my whole being. I'm both joyful and full of dread, excited and scared, I want to be even closer to him as I'm moaning an amalgamation of 'Joe' and 'son' and 'love', and as he returns my kiss, I'm wondering if his lips are going to give me eternal life.

My heart, my body, my soul, they all want the same thing, and that's him.

I feel his fingers under my shirt, and I gasp, suddenly realizing what we are doing. I grab his hands and pull away slightly, watching his face, his eyes that are still closed and his lips that are still parted for me, kiss-swollen and shining, his enchanted expression is full of longing. 

He opens his eyes, looking at me questioningly. 

This is too much. Too much. My head is spinning with emotions and morals and doubts. I want him, that's for sure, yet I mustn't have him. I mustn't…

"John," he whispers again, knowing exactly how this makes me feel. How I love the way his voice is making love to my name. How the sound is vibrating in his throat, how the oscillations of the air coming from his mouth enter my ear, transforming into a neural impulse in my brain… 

God, he's everything.

"John, my father, John. Don't you want me?" He asks, mocking and tempting me with the words, and I stroke his face. He puts his hands over mine, gently caressing with his thumb.

"You know I do, always."

"Is it too much then?"

How is he so childish and so mature at the same time? He knows my doubts, my fears for the future, my fears of how the world would perceive us, how our families would react, how it would affect both of us…

"It’s okay. It doesn't matter," he whispers, his eyes incredibly shiny, reading me so precisely, and I look away.

"Joe, I…"

I'm lost for words once again. I truly am.

"Will you let me stay?" He asks tenderly.

I nod, pulling him close once again. 

"Please, stay."

"I'll be waiting," he says, taking my hand and kissing my knuckles. How is he so… pure? "I'll be waiting for as long as you want me to."

He kisses my forehead after I nod, and we stand there for a long time, and I'm staring at his suitcase and his backpack on the floor, closing my eyes as our arms are wrapped around each other.

My room is dark, but the moonlight is shining in, painting silver stripes on my bed.

We have been sleeping in separate rooms ever since we found out the truth. I’ve been missing his body next to me. His soft snoring when he sleeps on his back, his sleepy mumbling, his cat-face when he wakes up just enough to cuddle against me before going back to sleep. I even missed his elbow accidentally punching me in the face when he turns around.

I don't think I'll ever get used to sleeping without him. I’m tired, millions of things swirling around in my mind, and I’ve missed him in my bed.

Hours pass, and I'm sleepless. 

Then the door opens quietly, and he shows up in my room in his pyjamas, his hair disheveled, looking rumpled. He rubs his eyes and he looks so childish in the semi-darkness that my heart aches, even though he’s an adult now.

He asks me if he can join me in my bed.

I long for him, every cell of mine wants him, but I hesitate. But he knows that I will let him, he knows it better than I do. He stares at me with dark eyes in the shadows, and I lift up the covers, and he smiles, climbing in next to me. I half-heartedly try to give him space but he presses against me, breathing against my neck, and his rapid heartbeat is drumming on my chest, synchronized with my own. 

He whispers that he won’t do anything I don’t want. He whispers that he just wants to hold me and feel me, and I finally relax into his arms, letting him smell me as I rest my head on his arm. 

I hold him close and he clings to me, gently breathing, his lips hovering over the skin on my neck.

It’s dark outside, the first chills have arrived, and the nights are turning longer.

I just realize it’s past midnight, and it’s his birthday.

“Happy birthday, little darling,” I murmur in his ear, and he sighs, puffing small words of gratefulness on my skin.

“Thank you for… for life,” he whispers sleepily, slowly falling asleep, and I kiss his head, his soft hair tickling my lips.

In his arms nothing matters, in his arms time stops, and he holds me, not trying to awake lust in me, only love. 

It’s a new relationship we both have to learn how to navigate. 

But in his arms, I feel like everything is going to be okay.


End file.
